It is not a Pet Shop Boys' song or sound.
But before I begin, let me give my heartfelt sympathy to my noisy upstairs neighbour, Beryl, who recently lost a sister-in-law during childbirth. Only words can capture that pain of losing a loved one in such a manner.
Last week the editor of this magazine wrote about recent birth tragedies during Caesarian deliveries. As I read those words, a very close cousin in California came very close to losing her life during birth.
Let us now move on to dead dads and dead philosophers, the kind who said 'God is dead.'
To do that we have to go to the olde Nairobi West where I grew up, to Birongo Square or rather 'corner' where the likes of my colleague Kerama still frequent. This is where the recently deceased Professor Nyasani used to come to for his tipple, almost every evening, for 40 years (1976 – 2015) which must make him some kind of urban drinking legend among men.
When you go to one spot, every day, long enough, you gradually gather disciples around your table. Jesus did this by a lakeside, and ended up with great catches like John, and fishy fellows like Judas.
Between late 1984 when he returned from Swaziland, and early 1991 when he fell out with the West End beer gang, my old man (dad) was one of the disciples of Professor Nyasani.
I remember one time when I was maybe ten, coming from school in the afternoon and those old Number 15 GPO buses dropping me at the Nairobi West shopping centre, and the old man demanded my report form.
Beaming, he passed it on to the Prof saying, 'You see, Thorny is clever like your daughter, Nyatichi.'
Turning to a chap who was drinking with them, my old man's face became a thunder cloud as he shouted: 'I told you, Tameno, not to marry a stupid woman who hasn't gone to school, but you did. A barmaid! That is why your children are always dragging their bottoms in the class. DNA, isn't it, Professor?'
Of course other men, even the now enraged Tameno, always fell silent to listen to Professor Nyasani! Brown skinned with a broad brow and dark hooded eyes, as well as a great voice, he always commanded a respect that my dad craved from his college and drinking peers, but never quite got.
When Professor Nyasani would get into his car and drive off into the late night, my dad would simply get up and stagger home since our house was/is in the neighbourhood. Sometimes he would sing songs like 'siku hizi, nakuonya, usikihii' or if it was the World Cup season, simply shout 'Burruchaga!' at the moon.
We would be woken up at 2am to feast on meat carried in pockets (which may explain my lifelong aversion to food until recently) or eggs with kachumbari, bought from bypassing bar vendors.
Once a live chicken was brought to be slaughtered and eaten at 3am, leading Malkiat Singh, who was then our neighbour before his runaway success, to suspect my old man was an African witchdoctor (come to think of it, maybe that is why Malkiat ran away)!
Once, a stray dog was brought home and we had to adopt it by force, since Dad loved it.
Another time it was Daudi Kabaka, and his guitar, that dad brought home at 3am from the West End. And forced him to sing songs for my poor mom till the crack of dawn.
And we must have been the only folks in Nairobi with a bar stool in the house.
Other folks, those days, stole glasses and ashtrays as mementos. Mr Ontita stole a bar stool.
He would have been 70 today.
tonyadamske@gmail.com